The Art of Cruelty
by Evermist23
Summary: When Tifa answers a modelling ad she can’t resist, things don’t exactly go according to plan. OneShot, Lemon, Character Awareness, Crossover and slight TifaxSephiroth, but in my defence it is somewhat plausible.


I don't own Final Fantasy 7, I don't own FullMetal Alchemist. I don't make any money. Don't sue. First Fic here, but I've been writing for the last 8 years.

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THE ART OF CRUELTY

Cruelty is, perhaps, the worst kind of sin. Intellectual cruelty is certainly the worst kind of cruelty.

~Gilbert K. Chesterton

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"This isn't what it looks like!" blurted the man seconds before the sword was pointed at his throat.

"Oh no, this is exactly what it looks like. It's a lemon. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you where you stand, Colonel." The intruder's eyes shifted to the girl, her wrists cuffed to her ankles, and she was watching him closely through her knees to see his reaction. "And don't think you're getting off easy either, Tifa, but we'll talk later, you and I..." Tifa swallowed, but said nothing. Sephiroth switched his attention back to an unnerved Roy Mustang, who was rapidly regaining his cool. "That reason is…?"

The man at the merciless end of Masamune swivelled round his State notepad. On it was a baseline drawing of Tifa, and not a bad one at that. "Fan art."

He watched as Sephiroth scrutinised his work. Eventually, the silver haired man sheathed his sword. "Oh, very well." He folded his arms and looked the model over. "But might I make a suggestion?"

"Make it a quick one, my back is really starting to ache." insisted Tifa, shuffling about.

"Stay put!" snapped Sephiroth, "You brought this on yourself, now deal with the consequences." To Roy, he said, "Don't draw another line. I'll return shortly."

"Oh, God…" moaned Tifa, realising that even though she wanted Cloud to save her, sending Sephiroth was probably his way of trying to spite her. Things between them hadn't been so good of late. "How do I ever get myself into these fixes?" It was a rhetorical question, but then:

"Hey, you answered the ad." shrugged Mustang.

"That's right. But when it said 'model' I was thinking 'catwalk'. Is that so wrong?"

"Oh keep your skirt on! You're getting paid too, don't forget. And a good cut on the whiskey without import tax, so I'd say this deal is more than fair."

"Aha, so that's the plan." Sephiroth had returned and with him a carrier bag of supplies. "It would be best to untie her."

"But my sketch isn't finished."

"Trust me."

Two words Tifa never liked hearing coming out of Sephiroth's mouth, particularly when she was in a compromised state. It wasn't just the way he said it, but the accompanying gleam in his eye, the wickedness that played at the corner of his mouth, the tantalising way that, after claiming the key, he unlocked her bonds and traced his finger up and down her thigh, "You want art, I'll show you art."

"I've changed my mind." Sighed the Colonel, but by now he was being ignored.

If Tifa had been wearing a collar, she would have felt hot under it. As it was, she was only wearing a short skirt and halter top. She stood up; felt light headed from the rush of blood to her head and promptly passed out.

She wasn't gone long, but long enough. The problem was time loved to kick her in the ass. Now was one of those times. When Tifa came to, she was lying on the Colonel's double bed. She was wearing a new black bra with the skirt, which seemed to have shrunk, and visible were seamed stockings with suspenders and black patent stilettos. She glared darkly at the figures from this position.

"That, Colonel, is art." Sephiroth looked like the cat who got the cream, sat on a chair backwards the other side of the room. "So, what do you think, Flame Alchemist?"

"I think you have an eye for beauty, General."

Tifa scowled. She didn't like being discussed like she wasn't there. "Men." She hissed, half pleased and half irritated that Cloud couldn't see her at that precise moment. "You're all alike." She was completely ignored.

"Thank you." Sephiroth bowed his head, not acknowledging her at all. "What medium are you going to use?"

"Charcoal on canvas. It can't fail."

"Well I'll leave you to it then. Don't let me down." Only now did he look at her. The dishevelled glamour that marked her as a siren was unmistakable. He recognised that Cloud was indeed a very lucky man; he just didn't know it himself. "Hold still." he commanded of her. What choice did she have? She whimpered a plea before he kissed her roughly, smearing her dark lipstick just enough to add to the allure. "Don't make a sound. For good art, the subject must suffer at the hands of her artist." And then he left.

"How could you… be so cruel..." She whispered under her breath as he walked out the door. Colonel Mustang couldn't resist adding the blush to his art class masterpiece.


End file.
